


mirror image

by MermaidMarie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death Fix, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MermaidMarie/pseuds/MermaidMarie
Summary: In which Eliot goes into the mirror world to save Quentin.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 17
Kudos: 278





	mirror image

**Author's Note:**

> No one really knows how the mirror world works, so I get to just make things up.   
> This fic took me a while to write.

It was a truly ridiculous, reckless plan. If you could even call it a plan in the first place, which was quite the stretch. But what else could he do? He had to try. What choice did he have? Sometimes, the worst happened, and all you could do is grasp onto any thin, desperate hope. Any possibility of fixing the tragic truth.

Eliot knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t do _something._

He _had_ to try.

The mirror world was—well, surprisingly cold. Eliot wasn’t sure quite what he was expecting. He hadn’t heard much about the place.

No one would tell him. No one wanted to talk about it. No one _ever_ wanted to talk about it.

He’d be chided for trying to bring it up. Worse, he’d be accused of trying to upset Alice. He didn’t think he could take the disapproving glances or the hissed scolding.

Whatever. Last he’d checked, Alice had betrayed them. He wasn’t sure how exactly they’d all just become friends again while he was otherwise occupied. Even Margo seemed to not quite remember what Alice had done.

Fine. He’d missed a lot, it seemed. No one was fully willing to catch him up. He’d ask, they’d avoid eye contact, mutter some half-explanations. There was avoidance enough to go around. It seemed he had to fill in the blanks himself.

Which was, in a way, how he ended up here.

It began, possibly, with the night of the bonfire.

Margo had dragged him away from the group after they all had their moment. He’d wanted to stay—really, he’d been intending on staying there until the fire burned out. It was maybe a tad dramatic, but he thought the situation called for that.

But Margo had insisted. She’d told him he needed to rest—that he wasn’t done recovering.

 _Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?_ Eliot had retorted, trying to pull away.

Margo had tightened her grip on his arm. _Look, you’re injured. And anyway—we should, like. Give Alice and Julia some space._

Which was what had pulled Eliot up short.

 _Alice and Julia?_ he’d repeated hesitantly. _Why?_

Margo had just looked at him for a moment, frowning and blinking.

_Didn’t anyone tell you?_

Well, no. No one told him anything anymore.

 _Alice and Quentin had gotten back together._ She’d shrugged a little. _And Julia was his best friend—she knew him better than anyone._

And what a thing to hear that was.

Eliot had felt his chest cracking open, his walls crumbling down. He’d already broken down in front of the fire—keeping up any sort of façade was damn near impossible. But just then, with those words—

Well, Eliot would be lying if he tried to say he wasn’t completely crestfallen and heartbroken.

He hadn’t told anyone about the Mosaic. Not even Margo. He and Margo, they weren’t really like that—sincerity was not built into their friendship. The Mosaic timeline had too much genuine emotion, too much weight. It was too complicated to discuss with Margo. So he’d kept it close to his chest, where the memories felt safe.

It was why he’d said no to Quentin in the first place.

He needed to protect the picture-perfect timeline in those memories—that life full of beauty, blurred at the edges. That promise that yes, he _was_ capable of that kind of soft happiness. He couldn’t let anything ruin it. Not his own tendency to fuck up anything and everything good, and not Margo’s tendency to take a sardonic view of things that were too achingly, domestically, _boringly_ good.

So he couldn’t say that it didn’t make sense, that Margo would think of Alice and Julia as the people who would be most devastated by Quentin’s death. It was, truly, a fair assumption to have. He couldn’t say it wasn’t his fault that she didn’t _know._

But here was the feeling that came with that realization: Eliot was on his own. No one else knew the magnitude of how much this had broken him. No one else knew what Quentin being gone meant to him. How it meant the light had burned out, how it meant any hope of love felt lost, how it meant he’d have to live with his heaviest regret, no chance of redemption.

The Mosaic memories were more precious than ever—he couldn’t tell Margo all of that. Never mind that he wouldn’t be able to take it if she had a single callous thing to say about that life that had been such a comfort, he wasn’t even sure he would be able to get the words out. It was too much.

So, of course, there it was. They would all go on thinking that Alice had been the love of Quentin’s life, and that Julia was the person who knew him best. As far as anyone among them was concerned, Alice and Julia owned the larger share of the grief.

Maybe it was a little self-centered, maybe a little petty, but—

It wasn’t _fair._

Eliot had grown old in love with Quentin. He had an entire _lifetime_ of memories.

They might’ve been able to really be in love here, too—they never got the chance to find out, thanks to Eliot.

And now Quentin was gone, and Eliot was the only one who knew about that life.

Eliot hated himself for not giving he and Quentin a chance. Quentin had made the offer—he’d taken the leap of faith. He believed in them—he’d wanted to _try._ And Eliot couldn’t do it, and he’d never be able to forgive himself for that.

So here he was.

Wandering the cold and uncanny halls of the world in the reflection. The place where Quentin had died.

_“Where do you think you’re going?” Margo said, blocking the door._

_Eliot felt guilt tightening his throat as he rolled his eyes. “For a walk, Bambi. I assume I’m allowed? You’re not holding me hostage, are you?”_

_Margo crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. She hadn’t left his side much since the bonfire. Eliot had to catch bits and pieces of research, flipping through the magic books that Alice or Julia left lying around from Brakebills or the Library. Looking things up online, as though that would help._

_They’d all more or less still been living in Kady’s apartment, never quite deciding if they were staying or not. It was sort of just as untethered and undiscussed as the rest of their depressing lives._

_“You’re not supposed to be—”_

_“I was at that doctor’s appointment, too. I know, I shouldn’t be exerting myself too much. But they said I shouldn’t do nothing either.” Eliot dropped his gaze to the floor. “I just need some time, okay?”_

_It wasn’t a lie, but it hurt to not tell Margo the whole truth._

_“Text me if you need anything,” Margo said after a pause. “And when you’re coming back. And if you just, I don’t know, want to talk. Have something to tell me.”_

_There was a complicated mix of sadness, discomfort, and fear in Margo’s voice. Eliot hated that they were all stuck in this fucking grief. It was hard on everyone._

_He really hated that it felt like there was something so insurmountable between him and Margo. But she couldn’t understand, and he couldn’t explain it. So here they were._

_“I’ll be fine,” he said, and that was the biggest lie he could’ve told._

_“El,” Margo said._

_“It’s just a walk.”_

The air felt muted. It was a strange texture, almost—it swallowed sounds and it swallowed warmth. Eliot was afraid to touch anything, like the dust might get on his skin and drag him into the graying, withering world of this strange place.

He knew he needed to find the place where Quentin had been destroyed by his own magic—the Seam, he’d been told.

He didn’t really know all that much more, despite all of his best efforts.

The hall felt everlasting. It seemed to stretch out as he walked, slowly and with care.

He’d been keeping his eyes off the doors that lined the place, unsure of what he’d see. It felt eerie, like there could be a face in one of those clouded windows if he looked up. He wanted to avoid opening any doors in this place. He didn’t know what would be on the other side.

Eventually, though, he had to admit that wandering the halls was getting him nowhere, ultimately.

He had to open doors.

The first room he slipped into was empty, save for some blank pages scattered in the corner.

Eliot walked slowly towards the center, his eyes scanning around for any movement. He felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, like there was someone hovering behind him. When he turned, there was nothing there.

The room still had the strange quality in the air, though it was a little different. It seemed like an echo of what he felt in the hallway—like the dust and the stifling heaviness was a degree of separation away.

 _Like a reflection,_ he thought idly.

Tentatively, he walked to the far wall, brushing his fingertips along it. They seemed to leave marks, like the wall was only barely there. Like it might crumble or turn out to be a mirage. He got the strange feeling that he might be able to walk through it if he tried.

He shook his head. That seemed like a bad idea. He’d have to get a little more desperate before trying that.

He got to the corner, where the scattered papers were.

The papers looked like they’d been blown in from a gust of wind, but he couldn’t imagine where they would’ve come from. Eliot picked up one of the pages gingerly. The quality of the paper was strange—almost like fabric. He ran his thumb along the edge of it curiously.

Words appeared on the page, fading in slowly.

_IT’LL EAT YOU WHOLE IF YOU LET IT._

Eliot blinked, frozen.

Well, that was quite the sentence to just _appear_ in this strange place. Eliot, frankly, didn’t care for the entire aesthetic this place was committing to so fully. It felt a little over the top, if he was being honest.

He folded the paper neatly, sliding it into his pocket.

He didn’t exactly _want_ the message, but he had received it.

He was about to reach for another page, the prickling, eerie curiosity getting the better of him, when he heard a slight noise behind him. Like a chair scraping back against an asphalt floor.

Eliot turned, and there was a standing mirror in the center of the room that hadn’t been there before.

“I’ve seen this horror movie,” Eliot muttered to himself, half to try and break the tension. It didn’t quite work. The way the air muted his voice made it worse.

He walked over slowly.

The mirror was milky and opaque, like fog swirling.

Slowly, an image began to form and Eliot’s stomach twisted.

It was him in the mirror. But not _him._

It was a version of him from years ago. A younger him.

Staring back at him was a chubby-cheeked middle schooler with limp curls and a bruise around one eye.

Eliot swallowed hard, feeling like he had to take a step away but unable to move.

He saw the boy close his eyes tightly and take a deep breath. A familiar move—he was trying to soothe himself, trying to pull himself together.

Slowly, methodically, the boy brought up a small, round container.

Eliot remembered this.

It had been late in the fall of seventh grade when Jake Michaelson had pushed him against the lockers and punched him for staring.

Eliot hadn’t wanted his dad to see the bruise. He didn’t want his dad to be proven right, when he’d said that Eliot was _asking_ to be hit. He didn’t want his dad to know that he was just as hated at school as he was at home.

So he’d sped home after school, trying to beat the rest of his family there. He’d stolen some of his mom’s makeup and he’d spent half an hour in the bathroom trying to cover the mark.

His dad hadn’t noticed. His mom had.

She didn’t say anything, exactly. She rarely did. She had just let her gaze linger over his eye and cheekbone. She’d narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips and given him the slightest shake of her head. Eliot could’ve tasted the disappointment in the air.

They never talked about it.

Eliot took a long, shaky breath, watching this boy dab powder around his eye. 

He didn’t cry. Then or now.

He closed his eyes.

“That’s enough,” he said, out loud, into the thick air.

When he opened his eyes, the mirror was gone, the room rendered empty again.

He glanced around the room, at the walls and ceiling like he might find something in them.

“The fact that you listened to me is almost worse, honestly,” Eliot said.

The silence was unsettling, but Eliot wasn’t exactly _hoping_ something would answer him.

He didn’t bother to go back to check the other pages. He just backed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

The hallway was no less unsettling than it was before. Eliot took a breath, glancing both ways before moving forward again. The hallway felt like it was getting longer as he walked, like with each step, he was covering less ground.

He paused, blinking a few times, hoping to get rid of the illusion. It didn’t work. Reality felt warped; time felt twisted. He felt like he couldn’t catch his breath.

Nothing was right in this place.

He ducked into another room.

This room was smaller, almost claustrophobic. There was a square mirror hanging on the wall.

Eliot walked over to it, studying the metal frame before forcing himself to look at the reflection. There was a yellow post-it note right at the edge, with small, careful writing on it.

_How many times have you looked at your reflection and liked what you saw?_

Eliot rolled his eyes, crumpling the post-it in a ball and dropping it to the ground.

“Very funny. What do you even want from me?” he muttered to the room. “Do you want an answer, or do you just feel like attacking me with pointed jabs?”

The room, thankfully, did not answer.

But the milky image in the mirror became clearer. And it was him again.

It was his first year at Brakebills—he was in the bathroom of the Cottage, splashing water onto his face.

It was one of the first parties where he felt magnetic. He was smiling and laughing and cocking his head, shooting snarky remarks and flirtatious quips. He liked the way people were looking at him. He liked the way that shy boy from class was drifting towards him with wide eyes.

His armor felt spotless, impenetrable. His clothes were exactly the way he wanted them. His hair was impeccably styled, just messy enough to look like he didn’t try. He was airy and constructed.

It was exactly what he wanted, what he’d _always_ thought he wanted.

The door had felt like paper when he closed it behind him. There wasn’t a padlock heavy enough to make him feel safe behind it.

The reflection let out a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut as the water dripped down his face.

Eliot remembered feeling on the brink of tears, inexplicably. It had been a good night. He didn’t understand his own insufferable fragility. It had felt like he was walking a tightrope, like his balance was shaky enough as it was and the winds were threatening to send him tumbling into the unknown. Or like he was walking along a cliff, the edge constantly in his sight.

Eliot tightened his jaw as he watched his reflection study the mirror, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. He watched him fix his hair, try to smile, look dead behind the eyes.

“Pull yourself together,” Eliot murmured, not sure if he was talking to the present or the past.

The Eliot in the mirror’s gaze flicked over and their eyes connected, with recognition.

Eliot stumbled back, nearly tripping over his feet.

“What the fuck—” he started, before the image in the mirror faded away.

He shook his head. This place…

He didn’t linger before leaving that room.

The next room felt like a hallway, mirrors lining the walls.

He stopped at the first one.

The air left Eliot’s lungs.

It wasn’t him in the mirror this time. It was Quentin, leaning forward, shaving the stubble from his face carefully.

The scenery behind him was achingly familiar. It was Fillory of the past. The mosaic timeline.

The word that came up in Eliot’s mind, no matter how much he tried to brush it off, was _home._

Quentin glanced behind him, half a smile on his face, talking to the Eliot that was out of frame.

_“Remember to write it down—”_

His voice was distant, like Eliot was underwater. But, right away, there were tears streaming down his face silently. Eliot brushed them away fast.

God, he could hardly breathe.

It was Quentin’s _voice—_ he wasn’t sure he’d ever hear it again.

Another sound caught Eliot’s attention—a soft laugh.

The next mirror. He sniffed, wiping the back of his hand against his cheek.

Eliot only managed to bring himself to move down the hallway-room when this mirror’s image faded. Back to that milky white. 

The next one was the both of them. Eliot was fixing his hair in the mirror, the crows-feet by his eyes more pronounced. Quentin was behind him, draping himself over Eliot’s shoulder and kissing his neck. Ruffling his hair affectionately as Eliot protested.

_“You look great, El, come on—we’re gonna be late—”_

Eliot closed his eyes. Letting himself hear Quentin’s warm laugh as the him in the reflection went on that he needed to look _perfect, thank you very much._

“Q,” he said softly.

When he opened his eyes, a paper airplane fell at his feet.

He leaned down, picking it up delicately. He swallowed, unfolding it with care.

_Don’t you remember? What it was like?_

Uneasily, he glanced back up at the mirror, half expecting to see Quentin looking at him in recognition. But the image had vanished. He could practically hear Quentin’s voice saying it—

_“Don’t you remember?” Quentin said to him, his voice quiet and harsh. Almost a hiss. “What it was like?”_

_It was one of their few stolen moments between the chaos, after the memories of the mosaic flooded them, after Eliot had pushed Quentin away. Quentin, being who he was, didn’t let it go like it was nothing._

_That was one of the things Eliot really loved about Quentin—he wasn’t afraid of things that were real, and he wouldn’t hide the strength in his feelings for the sake of self-preservation. Eliot admired that. He couldn’t imagine being that kind of person._

_Right in that moment though—_

_He was too defensive to be charmed._

_“No,” Eliot snapped back. He was frustrated that Quentin was doing this to him—they had enough going on, didn’t they? Whatever complicated thing was souring the air between them could fucking wait. “I_ don’t _remember it. I remember remembering it—there’s a difference, actually.”_

_“Oh, bullshit—”_

_Eliot couldn’t help but bristle._

_“No! No, because it didn’t happen, Q, why don’t you get that?”_

_Quentin glared stubbornly. “It did, though. It did happen, and you can’t tell me that it didn’t.”_

_Eliot scoffed, turning away. It was hard to meet Quentin’s gaze. “It only feels like it did,” he replied coolly. “We were just injected with other people’s lives, and_ you _latched onto it. That’s not my fault.”_

_Quentin let out a short laugh and began to walk briskly towards the door. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter, right?”_

_“Q—” Eliot started quietly, regret tugging at his chest. The hurt in Q’s voice…_

_Quentin stilled, his hand reaching the doorknob. He turned, meeting Eliot’s eyes easily._

_Eliot dropped his gaze right away._

_“It did matter. I get that. Okay?”_

_“Just not to you.”_

_“I didn’t say that.”_

_“You didn’t have to.”_

_“Quentin—”_

_Quentin took a step towards him, and Eliot forced himself to look into Quentin’s eyes._

_The stubborn, reckless sincerity was almost more than Eliot could take._

_“Tell me to stay,” Quentin said, his voice suddenly gentle. It was an achingly familiar tone, a voice that Eliot had memorized._

_It was an offering. Eliot knew it was. He could, really, tell Quentin to stay. He knew what would happen if he did. His hands in Quentin’s hair, Quentin’s lips against his neck, too-real confessions on both of their tongues. His heart laid bare, raw._

_Fragile feelings on display. Precious memories ready to be shattered._

_Eliot swallowed his feelings back and straightened his spine, willing his mask back onto his face._

_He didn’t even have to say anything. Quentin saw it before he could let out any careless, airy words to send him away._

_Quentin nodded, a tight smile on his lips._

_He left without another word._

Faint voices came from the next mirror. Eliot moved forward slowly.

_“I mean, can’t you see it?”_

The mirror showed Quentin and Eliot both, turned towards the mosaic, looking down at it. Quentin was gesturing towards it, his movements emphatic and frustrated.

In the distance, Eliot rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head ever so slightly— _“I’m trying. I don’t know, Q.”_

Eliot closed his eyes. Took a breath. He remembered this argument.

They were never really talking about the mosaic.

 _“Look, I don’t get why—”_ Quentin laughed, scoffed. _“God, El, you’re just trying to find the problems, aren’t you? Why shouldn’t this work, y’know? It’s—it’s like, okay, why—”_

 _“I think you’re taking this a little personally,”_ Eliot replied coldly.

Quentin groaned in frustration. _“Fuck you, Eliot. This is pretty fucking personal, okay? We’re never going to get this to work if you don’t—I just… Look. Forget the fucking—the fucking tiles for a second. We’re here together. That means something.”_

 _“Does it?”_ Eliot said. God, his tone was so airy and careless. Eliot hated himself, that version of him that refused to hear what Quentin was trying to say.

_“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t care.”_

_“Let’s just start again in the morning. Maybe the colors were wrong. Better luck next time.”_

_“Eliot—”_

_“I think I’ll head into town—grab a few things at the market. Do you need anything?”_

_“Fucking hell, Eliot, stop it. Would you just look at me?”_

God, Eliot didn’t want to hear any of this. The insistence and frustration in Quentin’s voice cut at him.

“I already yelled at myself for how I pushed him away,” Eliot told the hallway. “You’re not showing me anything groundbreaking here. I get it, I was an asshole.”

_“Can’t we do this another day? I’m tired.”_

_“No, let’s do this now.”_

Eliot turned away from the mirror. It had taken him too long to hear Quentin. Too long to truly listen to what Quentin wanted to tell him.

In the mosaic timeline, they’d at least had the time for Eliot’s baggage.

Here…

Here they’d run out of time while Eliot stalled and avoided.

The picture in the mirror faded back to the milky white it was before. Eliot looked back at it, into the blankness. He lingered for longer than he had with any of the others. It was eerie to stare into a mirror with no reflection.

Eliot moved forward.

_Another stolen moment—_

_Eliot had heard about the abyss key, about all that Quentin had gone through, alone on that ship. When Eliot had been the one to send him off alone—“go be life partners with someone else for a while.”_

_He managed to get Quentin alone, pull him away, if only in one of the brief moments between crises._

_He’d followed Quentin back to his room, closing the door tightly behind him._

_“Q,” he breathed, not sure where to begin._

_Quentin looked up at him, an uncharacteristically unreadable expression on his face. “What is it?” he said flatly._

_Eliot pushed through the way Quentin’s tone twisted his stomach. He ignored the resignation, the bitterness. He just stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Quentin tightly. “I heard—god, Quentin. I heard. What happened.”_

_Quentin was stiff in his arms for a moment before he relaxed a little, hugging Eliot back._

_“It’s okay,” he said quietly, his voice considerably softened. “Nothing happened.”_

_Eliot pulled back abruptly, keeping his hands on Quentin’s shoulders._ Nothing happened? _He swallowed hard, brushing away the spike of frustration. How could he say that nothing happened? He’d almost—_

_He studied Quentin’s eyes, a little desperately. Did he really think it was nothing?_

_“I almost lost you,” Eliot said._

_He’d meant to say_ we— _to mention how close they all got to losing Quentin. Really, he didn’t mean to say “I,” it just slipped out._

_Quentin furrowed his brow, looking up at Eliot with a strange expression. Eliot didn’t have the chance to wonder what the expression meant before Quentin surged up, pressing his lips to Eliot’s._

_Eliot froze a little and Quentin pulled back._

_Quentin’s palm was still on Eliot’s chest, and he had a slight smile. He shrugged slightly. Eliot could hear his own heartbeat._

_“Q—” he started._

_“No, I know,” Quentin replied softly. His smile only faded a little. “I know where you stand.”_

_“I—” he trailed off, at a loss for words. He could still feel Quentin’s lips on his._

_Quentin’s hand dropped. “You know where I stand, too.”_

_“Q, come on,” Eliot said, his voice low. “I can’t…”_

_Quentin shook his head. “This isn’t just over,” he replied, half to himself. “I get the timing is—fucking weird. When is it not?”_

_Eliot didn’t say anything. He didn’t really have anything he could say._

_“After all this, after this fucking quest is over—” Quentin looked at him, eyes wide and earnest. “We need to talk about this, because I’m not giving up. Okay? I’m not giving up on this.”_

Maybe that was why it hurt so much when Quentin offered himself up as the new jailer. Maybe that was why Eliot was so caught off guard when Quentin decided to leave, to throw his life away. Maye that was why it was impossible for Eliot to accept Quentin’s sacrifice. Maybe that was why he brought that gun, why he tried to kill the monster, why he refused to let it all end like that.

Maybe he never would’ve been able to accept losing Quentin anyway.

Eliot rubbed a hand down his face, tracing the sequence of events in his mind, like he’d been doing for weeks.

Quentin had _said_ they needed to talk. They were supposed to get a chance to—

Eliot didn’t know what. _Something_ was supposed to happen.

Quentin had promised. Hadn’t he?

They were going to—

Fuck, they were going to figure _it_ out. Whatever mess of feelings was between them, they were supposed to figure it out.

Maybe that was why Quentin had been so focused on saving him, too. Maybe they were just doomed to go back and forth, losing themselves trying to get to some mythical conversation where they could work out all the bullshit that they needed to.

Then again, maybe Quentin had changed his mind.

He’d been the one to offer to stay in Blackspire. And then he’d gotten back together with Alice while Eliot was possessed. Maybe Quentin had quietly come to the same conclusion Eliot had, that they would never work here and that they had to move on. Maybe he _had_ given up.

All the while, Eliot was trapped in his own mind, examining what he should have said, what he should have done.

How he should have been braver.

Maybe they were destined to never be on the same page. Maybe they weren’t even in the same book.

Eliot sighed shakily as he took slow steps through the room.

What was he even _doing_ here?

The soft voices reached him—

_“Maybe he’s the beauty of all life.”_

_“Maybe you both are.”_

_“You’re so corny, El.”_

Eliot’s heart beat hard against his ribs as he approached that next mirror. It was him and Quentin—leaning into each other, watching Teddy play idly with the colored tiles.

In those days, they were much slower at trying to create the patterns. For a while, they were lucky if they did one a day. They’d stopped feeling anxious to get back to the present, back to what they’d once thought of as home.

They had enough there. Their life was enough. That quiet, domestic life, a world away from anything Eliot could’ve begun to picture for himself…

Fuck. It had been _enough_ for him.

Eliot watched himself lean down and kiss Quentin tenderly on the cheek. Quentin glanced at him with a warm smile.

_“Maybe I am, but I learned it from you.”_

Eliot couldn’t take this. Watching his own pain was numbing and miserable—watching his own joy, his own contentment in love, was unfathomably worse.

He could hear Quentin’s voice again—

_What if we gave it a shot?_

_What if, what if, what fucking if…_

The words echoed in his mind often. He never really stopped hearing them.

It was unbearable.

“God, what’s the _point_ of this?” Eliot snapped, running a restless hand over his too-long hair. “Fuck this, okay—what is this supposed to _accomplish?”_

The image on the mirror flickered out, a little more suddenly than the others had faded. Eliot wondered if he’d done that.

He spun around, not even wanting to look at the blank mirror. The image had gone black instead of that milky white.

“What, am I supposed to be _reflecting_ here? Isn’t that a little on the nose?” He spread his arms glaring into the emptiness. “This is so _fucking_ pointless.”

Another page slid in front of him. He glared down at it.

“I’m getting tired of this,” he said, leaning down to pick it up.

_Peaches and plums, motherfucker. I’m alive in here._

A glimmer of hope sparked in his chest.

“Quentin?” he whispered, almost hoping for an answer.

There was nothing. And there were no more mirrors in the room.

He swallowed hard, tucking the page into his pocket fast.

He didn’t want to stay in this room. He didn’t want to leave.

As he walked back into the hallway, it felt like he was tearing himself in half.

Eliot didn’t even notice it happening—suddenly, his fear had grown, his heart started beating faster. He had to stop himself from fidgeting with his fingers, a habit he’d tried desperately to grow out of.

In fact, all his carefully constructed walls had vanished. He felt raw, on display.

He turned and was faced with the reason why.

Another him stood a few feet away, chin raised at an angle that he recognized. A posture he’d practiced in the mirror before college.

There was no mirror in the hallway. This apparition was as real as he was.

“So there you are,” the other him said snidely, his gaze raking down judgmentally. Eliot wanted to hide from the prying, harsh gaze. “You’re who I’ve been trying to get rid of.”

His voice was familiar. Eliot didn’t need to be told who this was. He’d read about a few tricks of the mirror world, the few that people had been able to observe.

“Fuck,” Eliot muttered.

“Eloquent.”

“You can’t scare me,” Eliot replied, taking a step back. “I’m not afraid of you. I created you.”

The other him raised an eyebrow. “The one thing you did right, I suppose.”

Eliot wanted to curl in on himself, cover his ears and close his eyes. He wanted to block out the whole world. Why had he even come here? Why did he think he could do _anything_ right? He should just get out—get out while he still could, run back to the real world, forget the dream of playing hero.

_Forget trying to save—_

“So go,” the other him said, like he could hear his thoughts. The idea made Eliot feel sick. “Run away. It’s what you’re good at.”

Eliot shook his head. “I’m not the one who runs. That’s you. It wasn’t _me_ who told Quentin that it wasn’t us, not if we could choose.”

“I mean, wasn’t it though?” he drawled carelessly.

“Those were _your words—”_

“Maybe. But you’re the one who said them.”

Eliot closed his eyes.

“What, are you trying to block me out?” came the mocking tone. “You can’t.”

_“You don’t have to do that, you know.”_

_Eliot swore, sucking at his finger he’d pricked with the needle. The tears in his vest were getting worse._

_It took him a moment to notice that Quentin was looking at him._

_“What?” he said._

_Quentin offered a half smile. “Listen, eventually, we’re gonna just have to bite the bullet and dress like Fillorians. I mean, my hoodie’s already been turned into dish rags.”_

_Eliot glanced back down. His vest certainly wasn’t what it used to be._

_“I need something that makes me feel like myself here,” he said. Really, in his own way, it was one of the more honest things he’d ever told anyone._

_“I get it,” Quentin said. He nudged Eliot’s leg with his foot. “I like this you, too.”_

_Eliot raised an eyebrow, shooting him a smirk. He rolled a shoulder back and cocked his head._

_“What, shirtless?”_

_Quentin laughed, ducking his head in an almost-nervous way. He didn’t seem nervous, though. Eliot’s flirtatious smirk shifted to fondness at the comfortable energy between them. It was nice. It was…_

_“I won’t deny that,” Quentin said, grinning a little._

_Eliot rolled his eyes._

_“I meant—like. Unguarded.”_

_“Unclothed.”_

_“Shut up.” Quentin shifted a little closer to him. “I don’t know—I guess it’s nice to see you… Relaxed? That’s not really the right word, I…”_

_Eliot had a feeling he knew what Quentin was getting at, and he suddenly desperately didn’t want Quentin to say it. He reached over, ruffling Quentin’s hair._

_“Hey!” Quentin leaned away, pulling the hair tie out and smoothing his hair back into a bun. “Ass.”_

_“Oh, please. You like it.”_

_Eliot glanced over in time to see Quentin’s exaggerated eye-roll. He looked back down at his vest, smiling to himself._

_They settled into another warm silence for a few moments, and Eliot thought that was the end of it._

_Until._

_“I just mean, I guess… I like seeing you when you’re not trying to be anything in particular. When you’re just you. Not so controlled.” Quentin shrugged. “I don’t know.”_

_Eliot bit the inside of his cheek. Quentin saw him. Quentin_ saw _him, and he still liked him. Eliot’s chest tightened. Just what in the hell was he supposed to do with that?_

_“Bet we can find you some hot Fillorian clothes at the next market, though.”_

_Eliot chuckled, trying not to sound as breathless as he felt._

_“God, you’re such a nerd, Coldwater. I’m just playing right into your fantasies, aren’t I?”_

“You know why you’re always trying to hide behind me? It’s because you’re afraid. Because you’re pathetic.”

Eliot sighed. He opened his eyes.

“Maybe,” he replied.

The other him rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s no _fun_ if you just admit it.”

He shrugged, looking away. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’m trying to be better.”

“How noble.”

He let out a short, strained laugh.

The other him narrowed his eyes. Eliot forced himself to meet his gaze. It felt like a truly ridiculous staring contest.

He was still raw, uncomfortable. Petrified about how little he could hide right now. But there was something steeling him. Some core understanding within him, within this moment.

Because here was this truth: this other him, he was as real as Eliot was. Because Eliot made him real. This was who he was; this was who he chose to be. It was a split he could manage because he was already intimately familiar with it. He’d _chosen_ to disconnect the two.

Which meant, maybe, that he could choose to put himself back together.

“You’re only as real as I make you,” he said. There was a tremor in his voice that wouldn’t go away.

The other him shrugged nonchalantly. “If you get rid of me, what’ll you be left with? You _need_ me.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But you need me more.”

He closed his eyes again, taking a deep breath.

He thought of Margo and Quentin—how he felt when he was with them. Like the stitches that held him together were stronger. Like the fear of unraveling was distant. He thought of all the ways his makeshift family at Brakebills and in Fillory made him feel unbroken. He thought of his life at the cottage, in that other world, where he learned he had nothing to hide. Nothing to cover.

He thought of how Quentin looked at him, when he wasn’t worrying about keeping up his façade.

He noticed it happening this time.

He was centered. It felt like something was being returned to him. His armor, whether he needed to use it or not. It was back.

He opened his eyes and there was no one else there.

He took only a few more steps down the hall before he began approaching another door.

He found he didn’t want to open this one at all.

He forced himself to go in. 

Something felt deeply, deeply wrong about this room.

Which, given all their luck, probably meant Eliot was in the right place.

He walked in cautiously.

“Fuck,” he breathed to himself, examining the space.

The walls looked like they’d been charred. There was shattered glass all across the floor. The mirror frame in the center of the room had shards still hanging on.

As carefully as Eliot stepped, glass still crunched beneath his shoes. He tried not to think about it.

This was where Eliot’s plan sort of fell apart. So he got to what was once the Seam, but what could he do now?

Well, he knew it was going to be risky.

_Minor mending._

Here’s all he knew: they had gone to throw the monsters into the Seam. The Librarian had appeared and broken the mirror. Quentin, stupid, brave, Quentin, who never thought very far ahead, had mended the mirror and thrown the monster in as Penny grabbed Alice and pulled her out of the room.

Then the room had fallen to pieces and everything had broken. The mirror shattered again, Everett and Quentin evaporated, and Eliot’s world cracked.

“Here goes nothing,” Eliot said. His hands were shaking.

He managed to go through the tuts anyway. His fingers felt awkward and stiff as he went through the motions.

The shards of the mirror gathered themselves up, the lines where the mirror had cracked glowed with magic.

Eliot took a breath. The research on the mirror world was pretty flimsy, the research on the Seam even more so. Every step of this was nothing more than a last-ditch effort, a truly, deeply reckless attempt at fixing what had been destroyed.

The fact of the matter was that this was the kind of brave, _stupid_ nonsense that Quentin would’ve done for anyone else. So Eliot knew, deep in his core, that he _had_ to do it for Quentin. If not him, then who?

Someone had to take the risk.

The seconds felt stretched as he moved forward, his limbs dragging behind him.

He sent a quiet apology to Margo, a desperate prayer to any god or goddess that might take pity on him.

And he jumped into the mirror as the magic began to crackle dangerously in the air.

He couldn’t say how long he fell. It felt timeless, completely disconnected. For all he knew, he was going to keep falling into the nothingness forever. He wondered idly if this was the end—if the Seam was just a void you fell into forever. If there was nothing left to do but sink.

That would be just perfect, wouldn’t it? He’d felt like he was falling since hearing that Quentin was dead. Might as well make it literal.

He couldn’t say how long it was. Long enough to think of these things.

Long enough to go through each moment he rejected Quentin, each moment he pushed him away. Long enough to feel regret clutching at his heart. Long enough to think of Margo’s face, of Alice’s tears, of Julia’s silence. Long enough to relive the bonfire. Long enough…

Long enough to watch that peach burn again.

Long enough to remember Teddy’s laugh.

Long enough to lose hope.

Until, finally, his body hit solid ground.

It was a strange kind of darkness. Like Eliot imagined the bottom of the ocean might feel like if you were surrounded by anglerfish hiding in the distance.

It felt like there was no real light, but Eliot could still see. Sort of. He thought. There was just nothing there to see. The world was gone. The silence was overwhelming. The strange quality of the air from the mirror world was gone, and it was replaced with _absolutely fucking nothing_.

That’s what this whole place felt like.

Nothingness.

It seemed like the darkness was sapping the very color from Eliot’s clothes. He got the impression that things were not allowed to exist fully in this place. It was…

Well. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant place to be. Eliot could think of places he’d rather go on vacation.

Places that didn’t feel vaguely malevolent.

Unsure of what else to do, Eliot began to walk.

And walk.

And walk.

And walk.

And walk.

Into the darkness and into the unknown. He just kept going.

Eventually, he did run into…

Something. In all this nothingness, there was a figure in the corner of Eliot’s eye.

He turned, eager for _anything_ at that point.

It was like a nightmare. It was Quentin, but not Quentin. He could sense something was missing before he understood what he was looking at.

Eliot approached slowly, but he still couldn’t see Quentin completely clearly. It was like there was clouded glass between them.

He stared vacantly at Eliot, void of any light.

“Quentin?” Eliot said cautiously.

Quentin’s mouth moved like he was talking but there was no sound.

Eliot took another step towards him. Quentin stepped back, seeming to register Eliot’s presence. He just shook his head, wide-eyed.

“Q,” Eliot said, voice cracking and quiet. He could taste his own bitter desperation in the back of his mouth.

This wasn’t really Q. He could _feel_ that it wasn’t really Q. And yet, the desperation was clutching at him.

Quentin’s brow furrowed and he tilted his head a little. He seemed to try to say something, and studying his lips, Eliot could almost hear his voice saying _I’m sorry._

“What are you sorry for?” Eliot said gently.

Quentin shook his head again, taking another step back.

“Wait—” Eliot started.

Just like that, Quentin faded away and Eliot was alone again.

“Q, come back,” Eliot said, his voice growing a little stronger. “Fuck, we’re not _done_ here. I need you. I still need you.”

His voice seemed to echo into the void.

Eliot looked around. There was nothing there. No one.

Another page fluttered to the ground in front of him.

 _I’m sorry_ was all it said.

“Don’t be _sorry,”_ Eliot snapped at the empty space. “Be _here.”_

He turned, but there was nothing but darkness and emptiness around him.

A heaviness hit the center of his chest— _he’d failed, hadn’t he?_

This was it. He came here in desperation, trying to save Quentin, trying to bring him home, but Quentin was gone. He was dead. There was nothing here, and Eliot had gotten himself trapped in this black abyss for _nothing._ It was over.

Eliot’s knees crumpled beneath him and he fell to whatever passed for the ground in this empty place.

He pressed his palms down. He tried to breathe. He couldn’t.

All he could do was sob into the floor, hunched over, his tears falling onto the backs of his hands. Everything was dark and cold and empty. What was there left to do? He was trapped in the Seam, because of his reckless, stupid hope—because he had to try _something,_ even if he knew it was an impossible long shot.

He wished, a little bit, that he’d told Margo what he was doing. Where he was going. He regretted that she would never know what happened to him.

Oh well. Knowing what happened to Quentin hadn’t exactly made anything any better, or easier. He was here, after all, because he knew how Quentin died. And he thought—

What did he even think, really? That something _good_ might happen for once? That for once, for one small moment, luck might be on their side?

Stupid.

He was so _fucking_ stupid to believe.

His grief was like gravity. There was no use trying to stand.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

A small voice in the back of his mind came up—

_What would Quentin do?_

Eliot let his eyes flicker open, and he focused in on the teardrops that had fallen onto the backs of his hands.

“To _hell_ with what Quentin would do,” he said through gritted teeth. _“Quentin_ got himself killed. _I’m_ getting us both back home.”

He forced himself to his feet, tears still slipping down his cheeks, glaring into the nothingness.

He just had to take the next step. And the next. And the next.

And the next.

“Fuck you, I’m not giving up.”

He walked further into the darkness. Something had shifted, just a little. It was less _nothing,_ it was less malicious.

It was still like being underwater, almost—he felt like there was some light from above, like the mirror-portal was letting some in, however muted. It didn’t really feel like his eyes could adjust enough.

He managed to see only just the spaces where he stepped. He couldn’t see farther than one stride in front of him.

After a while of walking, it almost felt like something was following him. He didn’t turn to check. It didn’t matter. He didn’t have the energy or the fight left in him to face anything other than each next step.

The walking and the emptiness and the darkness gave him plenty of space to think, though.

His regrets swirled around him, every moment he could’ve been better. Every time he had the chance to be brave and didn’t take it. Every time he chose to hide or run or deflect. The moments cycled through his memory, reminding him of everything he wasn’t. Everything he felt like he couldn’t be.

He took a deep breath. The air was cold and crisp, like he was outside in a strange fog.

He’d told himself before, in the Happy Place—

_If he got out of here, he’d be braver._

He could make that promise again.

He’d be better. If he found the door back home.

He’d be better, and he’d be braver, and he’d tell Quentin the truth.

He’d be honest about what he loved. Like Quentin.

He just had to find his way out, and the only way was through. He had to find Quentin and get him back home—he’d gotten this far. He had to follow this to the end. It was all that he could do.

His memory lingered on a time, in that other life—

_They were working in comfortable silence, the argument from the other day faded like the morning mist. They argued often—it was just something that happened when you spent day after day together, working on the same mundane, endless task. Arguing was another way to pass the time._

_Quentin didn’t seem angry. There was no lingering bitterness between them. Quentin smiled a little as Eliot handed him a yellow tile and that was it. Things were comfortable. Normal._

_And still—_

_Eliot was never good at apologizing. Nor was he good at admissions of feelings—any kind of feelings, really, if he was being honest. He preferred to keep anything remotely fragile safely inside himself._

_Having feelings was embarrassing, honestly._

_But—_

_“I don’t—” he started, cutting off abruptly._

_Quentin looked up from where he’d been hunched over. An annoyingly adorable look of confusion on his face._

_Bastard._

_Eliot sighed sharply, looking away from Quentin. Keeping his eyes trained desperately on the tiles in front of him, with a performative concentration on where he was placing them. “It does,” he said, very carefully, “mean something.”_

_“El?”_

_If he looked over at Quentin, he’d lose his nerve._

_“That we’re here together, I mean. I didn’t…” Eliot sighed again, softer._

_“It’s okay,” Quentin replied. “I know what you meant.”_

_Eliot finally glanced over at him. Quentin’s eyes were on his._

No, you really don’t, _Eliot thought to himself, a pang in his chest._

_He glanced away quickly. He never understood how Quentin—anxious, high-strung Quentin—could make such intense eye contact without blinking. It was unnerving. It was like he was always ready for a fucking staring contest._

_“I am trying—” Eliot said slowly “—to make it clear that… Well. That_ this, _I mean—”_

_He cut off again, trying to sort through his words._

_“It’s okay,” Quentin said. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”_

_Eliot glanced back at him and nodded, a slight smile._

_He wondered on and off for weeks what Quentin thought he knew in that moment._

The uneasiness grew abruptly when he reached the edge of what appeared to be a wide, soft spotlight.

He hesitated, stepping into it with a hint of dread.

Nothing happened, not right away.

A few steps in, he saw that things were different.

In that it wasn’t _nothing_ anymore.

There were shards of glass scattered across the floor. Uneasily, Eliot nudged at one with his shoe. Dim light reflected off of it and shone back up at him. He leaned down, picking it up delicately.

It was a mirror shard.

He dropped it back to the floor and it didn’t make a sound.

He stepped forward, following the pieces.

He saw the empty mirror frame first—just like in the room with the Seam portal.

Next, he saw the hunched shape on the ground right in front of it.

His breath caught in his throat. He recognized him immediately.

_Quentin._

Eliot took tentative steps forward.

“Q?” he called lightly.

“Don’t,” came the immediate, flat response.

Eliot stopped in his tracks, startled. He’d barely been expecting a response at all.

He took a moment to look around. It was just the mirror, Quentin, and him. He didn’t know where the light illuminating them was coming from. Quentin was bracing himself on the ground, his palms on the floor. He was breathing heavily.

Wait—

He was _breathing._

“Quentin?” Eliot said, taking another slow step forward. He was afraid that if he moved too fast, if he wasn’t careful enough, Quentin would vanish forever.

“I can’t do it,” Quentin said.

“Can’t do what?” Eliot asked.

Quentin leaned back on his heels, hanging his head. He didn’t say anything.

“Q? What can’t you do?” Eliot prompted again.

Quentin groaned, moving to try and sweep together mirror shards with his bare hands.

“Hey, hey, wait—” Eliot said. He forgot to be cautious and hurried to him. He crouched down in front of Quentin, quickly taking Quentin’s hands in his.

Quentin just went still.

Eliot rubbed his thumbs gently over Quentin’s wrist, in a comforting gesture echoed from another life. He turned Quentin’s palms over in his.

There were cuts and scrapes in various stages of healing.

Eliot sucked in a breath. “Oh, Q.”

Quentin didn’t seem to react. Eliot wasn’t even sure he was aware of his presence.

He leaned over, pressing a kiss against Quentin’s inner wrist. He could feel a pulse against his lips.

This wasn’t exactly the reunion his stupid, optimistic heart had been clinging to.

He steeled himself as best he could, keeping Quentin’s hands cupped in his. There was an awareness twisting in his heart. Really, there were a number of heavy, terrifying truths that were making their way through his veins— _this is the first time he’s touched Quentin since it happened, Quentin seems to be alive which means he’s been trapped here, who knows what it means that he’s been trapped here, why is this mirror here and these shards, what is Quentin doing here with them, how long has he been here—_

Possibly the most immediate fear—

_He hasn’t looked at Quentin’s face yet._

Because—

_He doesn’t know what he’ll see. He’s afraid of what he’ll find. He heard Quentin’s voice already, the numbness, the emptiness—_

The fear nagging in the back of his mind—

_What if Quentin is lost? Alive, but gone—_

Or—

_What if this isn’t really Quentin?_

Finally, he forced himself to look up from Quentin’s hands.

His heart sank.

“Quentin…”

It was Quentin, alright. There was no doubt in his mind.

Quentin, with red-rimmed eyes. Quentin, with deep purple bags under them. Quentin, with a slack, expressionless face. With a split lip and scrapes on his cheek. With dark, damp lashes and near-dry tears.

There was no recognition in his face, no sign he might understand that Eliot was even there. 

“Okay,” Eliot started, his voice cracking. “Okay, um. Hold—hold on. I got you.”

No reaction.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

_Nothing._

Eliot reached up, brushing Quentin’s hair back gently.

It was too short to tuck behind his ears, and somehow, that’s what got Eliot to tear up.

He took a heavy, shaky breath. _Pull yourself together._ His hand was trembling as he gently rubbed his knuckles down Quentin’s cheek, tracing along his jawline to tilt his chin up.

Quentin wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Q? Can you hear me?” Eliot said softly.

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut. “Please stop,” he murmured.

A tear slipped through his eyelashes. Eliot brushed it away.

“Quentin, it’s me,” he tried.

“This isn’t real,” Quentin said under his breath.

Eliot’s heart cracked.

“It is. I’m real. I’m here.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Quentin’s. “Please.”

There was a long, still moment. Eliot found himself holding his breath, desperately hoping for Quentin to _feel_ him here. To understand that he wasn’t alone anymore.

The quiet and the emptiness dragged on.

Eliot pulled back again, pressing his palm to Quentin’s neck, still using his other hand to cup Quentin’s hands. He studied Quentin’s face, his gaze flicking between his eyes with desperation.

“Q,” he finally said.

Quentin let out an unsteady, hollow laugh. “I need to get out of here.”

“That’s why I’m _here,”_ Eliot said.

Quentin pulled his hands away from Eliot’s, scrubbing at his face with them and letting out another noise of frustration.

Eliot shifted back, bring his hands to rest on his knees. This wasn’t a situation he’d planned for. He furrowed his brow, unsure.

“Quentin—” he tried again.

Quentin brought a hand up to silence him. _“Don’t,”_ he said, his voice a little stronger.

Eliot stifled a sigh. At least he almost sounded like himself.

He fished the pages he’d collected out of his pocket, taking a moment to pull out the one he was looking for. He shoved the others back and tried his best to flatten the message. Taking a breath, he tried to hand it to Quentin.

When Quentin didn’t react, he placed the page delicately on Q’s lap and waited.

_Peaches and plums, motherfucker. I’m alive in here._

Eliot watched as Quentin hesitated over the paper, his fingers just barely touching it. He heard Quentin’s breath catch.

Quentin finally picked up the page, delicately using both hands. Eliot could see the way the paper was trembling, the way Quentin’s shoulders shivered.

“Eliot?” Quentin breathed, barely audible.

Eliot’s lips curled up in an almost amused smile. “Right here, Q,” he said, fondness creeping into his tone.

Quentin stilled.

Finally, _finally,_ he looked up and his eyes connected with Eliot’s.

Quentin’s eyes got wide, and Eliot let out a small, broken laugh through the tears that were welling.

_I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._

_And so are you._

Suddenly, Quentin punched Eliot on the arm. Kind of hard.

“Hey!” Eliot shoved Quentin’s hand back. “Asshole, what was that for?”

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Quentin snapped, glaring.

He _did_ look angry. But Eliot could see the glimmer of relief in his eyes, the way life was back in his expression.

“What do you _think?”_ Eliot replied, raising an eyebrow.

 _“Dick._ I got here saving _you,_ you can’t just—fucking, like, show up here.”

“I figured it was my turn, then, wasn’t it?”

Quentin clenched his jaw, shooting Eliot a familiar look of exasperation.

“Sorry, I left my white horse at home,” Eliot said, gesturing vaguely. “But make no mistake, Q, I _am_ your knight in shining armor. Now let’s get the hell out of this nightmare.”

Quentin snorted, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. “El, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re _trapped_ down here,” he said, his voice thin, tired.

“I refuse to believe that.” Eliot looked around, at the darkness that surrounded them. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“Not always.”

Eliot felt that hopeless tone stab through the elation that had him floating a moment ago. Quentin finally saw him, but—

Judging by that flat resignation, something was deeply, deeply wrong.

“The Quentin I know doesn’t give up,” Eliot said, cupping Quentin’s cheek gently.

Quentin gave a forced half smile. “El. _That’s_ the way out,” he said, with a hint of strained patience. He pointed to the mirror frame.

Eliot looked at the frame. And then he scanned the shards scattered across the floor. And then he looked back at Quentin.

“So?” Eliot said.

“So _I can’t do magic here,”_ Quentin hissed.

“Hm.” Eliot dragged his gaze across the floor again. “Well, I do seem to recall another time when we had to build something out of smaller pieces without using magic.”

Quentin actually laughed, a little hysterically.

It wasn’t quite a victory, but Eliot grinned anyway. At least Quentin was being expressive.

“Right, of course, except the mosaic took _our entire lifetime,_ and _you died before we finished it,_ and it was actually basically a trick question the whole time, and the tiles weren’t _shards of glass—”_ Quentin lifted his hands, showing Eliot his palms again “—and we weren’t in _a black empty void,_ we were in _Fillory,_ and oh yeah, _did you happen to bring any fucking superglue with you?”_

Quentin huffed, crossing his arms.

Eliot tapped a finger against his bottom lip thoughtfully and looked back at the mirror frame. “Well, you do make some points.”

He got to his feet, readjusting his clothes.

“I do have another idea.”

“Yeah?” Quentin mumbled back, not sounding particularly confident about the concept. “What is it?”

“Well, you said _you_ couldn’t do magic,” Eliot replied. He glanced back down at Quentin with a smile. “Why don’t I give it a shot?”

Quentin just looked up at him.

Eliot took a deep breath, studying the shards. He carefully and deliberately went through the tuts for the spell.

And the air seemed to sparkle as the shards gathered themselves up again, sorting themselves and rearranging back in the mirror frame. Eliot stole a glance back at Quentin. He was staring at the floating shards, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

Eliot watched as Quentin plucked a mirror shard from the air, turning it over carefully in his fingers before releasing it back into the air.

A soft yellow glow covered the breaks as it repaired itself. Eliot pushed his shoulders back and let out a soft sigh of relief.

He _knew_ something had to go right for them for once. Maybe luck really had taken pity on them.

As the last shard found its place, Eliot turned back to Quentin.

“See? As I said, your knight in shining fucking armor.”

He offered a hand to Quentin.

Quentin looked at him with something near disbelief as he took his hand.

Eliot pulled him to his feet. Instead of letting go, he interlaced their fingers.

“Are you ready?”

“Guess so.”

The mirror was cold was they passed through it, and Eliot shivered. The moment it took to pass to the other side felt long, stretched out by anticipation and the bending of time and space. Eliot held his breath, throwing out a silent wish that they could make it to the other side.

He held on tightly to Quentin’s hand the whole time. Until they stumbled out of the grandfather clock in the living room of the Cottage.

Eliot caught himself on the back of the couch, but Quentin fell to his knees.

“Fuck,” Quentin said, breathing heavily.

“Shit, are you okay?” Eliot quickly pulled himself together to kneel at Quentin’s side.

“I’m fine. Um. Just dizzy.” Quentin pushed his hair back. “Like I’d been holding my breath.”

“How about I get you some water?” Eliot said, starting to get back up.

“Wait, no—” Quentin put a hand up. “Um. Stay? Please?”

Eliot’s heart ached at the uncertainty in Quentin’s voice.

“Sure,” he said softly.

Quentin shifted towards the couch and leaned back, tucking his knees into his chest. He closed his eyes tightly. Eliot settled down next to him.

For the first time, he noticed how empty and quiet the house felt, and how dark it was outside. He glanced back at the clock. Three thirty in the morning.

 _On what day?_ he wondered. He really couldn’t be sure how long he was gone.

He told himself it didn’t really matter. They were back now. That was the important thing.

“I really hope this is real,” Quentin breathed to himself.

Eliot frowned. “It is.”

Quentin let out a short, bare laugh. “No offense, but, um. It’s kind of hard to believe that.”

“I don’t know how to prove it to you,” Eliot said softly.

Quentin glanced at him, offering a weak smile. “It’s, uh. It’s fine. You don’t…”

It didn’t seem fine, but Eliot let it go. He wasn’t sure what else he could do.

They sat in silence for a while longer, Eliot sparing glances to Quentin with an amount of frequency. He found himself agreeing a little with Quentin’s concern—it felt hard to believe that they were there, together.

That this was real.

But, Eliot thought to himself, it _was_ real, which meant they’d have to face all the complications the real world held for them.

His bravery felt thinner here than it had in the dark void of the Seam.

“It’s a little late to let the others know you’re back,” Eliot said, half to himself, as he looked back at the clock.

Quentin paused. “The _others._ Oh, fuck,” he said. He rubbed a hand down his face. “I need to—”

Eliot was suddenly _desperate_ to not hear whatever Quentin needed to say. He knew that Quentin and Alice had gotten back together—that hurt enough on its own. He didn’t need to hear about it.

He cut Quentin off. “Before anything else—you’re coming with me into the bathroom and we’re getting these cuts on your palms cleaned up.”

“Eliot, that’s not necessary—”

But Eliot was already getting to his feet and helping Quentin up.

“I’m sure what you _mean_ is, _oh, thank you, Eliot, you’re my absolute hero,_ and of course, you’re welcome.”

Quentin just shook his head, but he followed where Eliot led. “You’re impossible.”

“Mhm,” Eliot agreed.

Eliot brought Quentin to the bathroom, having him wash his hands before leading him to sit on the edge of the bathtub. Eliot grabbed a first aid kit and sat down beside him.

He pulled Quentin’s hands into his lap, palms up. They didn’t look as bad here as they had there. There was only one cut that looked particularly deep.

He made the conscious decision to go slow anyway, getting out disinfectant and cotton pads and methodically giving each cut attention.

“I could do this myself,” Quentin muttered, his face angled away from Eliot’s.

“Ah, but the beauty is that you don’t _have_ to.”

“You could also just like. Use magic.” Quentin’s voice was strangely flat.

Eliot stifled a sigh, and he glanced up at Quentin, their eyes connecting briefly. He offered a slight smile. “Just. Let me?”

Quentin gave him a curious, uncertain look, but he didn’t pull his hands away.

Eliot looked back down. Truthfully, this could be done in seconds. He was dragging it out unnecessarily. He just didn’t want to face everything else. It was easier to focus on just this, this small, solvable thing.

Maybe it helped that Eliot could run his fingers along Quentin’s wrist, could brush a thumb along the soft skin.

After a while of silence, Quentin finally spoke.

“How is, um… How is everyone else?”

Well, it had to come up eventually, Eliot supposed.

“Everyone else,” Eliot replied nonchalantly, not looking up. “You mean like Alice?”

“Um. What do you—I mean. Well, I—yeah, I guess, but like. Everyone. Not just—not just, uh, Alice. Like, uh, Julia, and Margo. Y’know. Everyone.” Quentin’s stammering was cute, though the fact of it made Eliot’s heart hurt a little. Quentin was flushed, and Eliot had a _small_ idea of why.

Eliot wasn’t sure if it was just what he was listening for, but Quentin’s voice always seemed to catch on Alice’s name a little. Now and then. Always, it had always seemed to him like Quentin—

Well. Like Quentin, in truth, thought of Alice as the great love of his life. 

“It’s okay if you specifically want to know about Alice,” Eliot said, as kindly as he could. He managed, incredibly, to not sound bitter or jealous.

“Um.”

“I heard you got back together?”

It _almost_ sounded like an innocent question, just making conversation.

“Uh.”

“That’s nice. I’m happy for you.” He hoped Quentin believed him.

“I really, um. I really wasn’t asking—just. Just about Alice.” Quentin seemed uncomfortable, his hands twitching a little. “Like. How’s Julia?”

Eliot swallowed. The last time he’d seen Julia, she’d been a wreck in front of a bonfire. He doubted she was doing any better.

“I’m sure she’ll be better now that you’re back,” Eliot said lightly.

Quentin snorted. “If she doesn’t kill me herself for what I did.”

Eliot glanced up at Quentin with half a smile. “I think she’ll be more relieved than angry, Q.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“I am.”

Eliot pulled out a bandage for the one cut that really needed it. He took far longer than he needed to unwrapping it and pressing it with care into the rough skin of Quentin’s palm. He let his hand rest against it for a moment before he started to pull away, beginning to admit to himself that he couldn’t drag this out any longer.

Quentin closed his hand around Eliot’s, stopping him.

“Um. I, uh. I have to ask, I—”

Eliot studied Quentin’s eyes. They seemed almost wary.

“You know you can ask me anything.”

Quentin’s lips twitched up for a second like he found that funny. He didn’t look away.

“That day. At the park. What you said, I mean, I…”

Eliot felt like the air was too thick to breathe.

_Fifty years. Who gets proof of concept like that?_

“I mean. You were—um, you were probably just… Saying whatever it took to make me believe it was you. Right? You were just… I mean, it was the fastest way to… Right?” Quentin was getting the words out quick, like he wanted them out of his mouth, off of his tongue.

Eliot made a decision.

He didn’t want to lie to Quentin anymore.

“What do you want me to say?” Eliot said, each word careful.

“Just. Tell me. If you were just… If it didn’t mean anything. Just tell me, or I’m never going to be able to stop overthinking it.” His voice sounded rougher as he spoke.

Eliot swallowed.

He’d already made the decision.

“I can’t tell you that,” Eliot said. He hated himself for it, a little bit. It would be easier for Quentin if Eliot just kept his feelings to himself, if he let Quentin live happily with Alice forever.

Quentin let out a shaky breath, studying Eliot’s eyes. It took all of Eliot’s strength to not look away.

“What… Okay, what do you mean?” Quentin replied softly.

“What do you think?”

Quentin clenched his jaw. “I need to hear you say it.”

Eliot let out a thin, quiet laugh. “No, you don’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re with Alice.”

Quentin was the one to finally break eye contact, casting his gaze to the floor.

“It’s. More complicated. Than that.”

“No shit.”

“When Alice and I—” Quentin sighed. His hand started to move towards his hair, in that familiar nervous gesture, but he stopped. Settling it back against Eliot’s hand. “I wasn’t myself. I don’t… I don’t think Alice was herself, either. We were just both so…”

Eliot’s heart beat harder. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this.

Quentin let out a breath. He looked down at his hands. At Eliot’s.

“I was just so fucking desperate for—for _something,_ I don’t know. And Julia and 23 were just—and then Margo was so—and _you_ were—” Quentin looked back up at him, eyes wide and earnest. _Familiar, so familiar._ “You weren’t _there_ , El.”

Eliot wasn’t sure what he could say. Truth be told, he wasn’t completely certain he’d be able to form words if he knew what he was supposed to say.

_Does that mean that things would’ve been different if I’d been there?_

“But she’s—” Eliot started, but Quentin was already shaking his head.

Like he somehow knew what Eliot was going to say.

“She isn’t. And honestly, I think she knows I’m not it for her either. We were… Alone. Both of us. And we were just tired of it.” Quentin shrugged. “It was a mistake.”

“A mistake,” Eliot echoed.

Quentin looked at him, a little desperately. “Can you just tell me what you meant? That day in the park?”

Eliot didn’t let himself think before responding.

“I meant I’m sorry. I meant I love you.” Eliot laced his fingers with Quentin’s, almost believing for a moment, almost. A small, fragile _maybe._ “I meant that I lied, when I said that wasn’t us. I meant you were right, and I mean that I wish I’d been brave enough to…”

“And now?” Quentin said, his voice low.

Eliot smiled. A hopeless, warm smile. He shrugged one shoulder. “And now,” he replied simply.

“You still…” Quentin trailed off.

“I’ve loved you for a lifetime, Q,” Eliot said. “I’ll love you for another.”

He was surprised at how easily he could say it. It was just the honest truth.

Quentin just stared at him. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but no words came.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Eliot said. He reached forward, brushing Quentin’s hair off his forehead with delicate fingers. “It’s late. And something tells me you haven’t gotten much rest lately. Why don’t we get you to bed?”

Eliot closed the door behind them, leaning against it like he might vanish into it if he tried hard enough.

“So,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“We’re…”

“Yep.”

“Are you—”

Before Eliot could finish the question, Quentin was against him, lips pressed to his, pushing him into the door. Eliot didn’t know what he was going to ask. Whatever it was vanished from his mind, and his entire world had shrunk down to just this.

Quentin pulled away abruptly, and Eliot couldn’t breathe.

“Is this… I’m sorry.” Quentin fidgeted a little, seeming like he didn’t know what to do with his hands now that they weren’t digging into Eliot’s hips. “Is this okay?”

Eliot blinked, barely understanding the question.

He never ceased to be amazed at how easily he could come undone when it came to Quentin Coldwater. No one else in the world could render him speechless the way Quentin could. The way he always did.

Quentin glanced away, looking a little embarrassed. “Right, um. Sorry. I’m, uh…”

He wasn’t even aware of it, that was the thing. Eliot was completely, hopelessly _melting_ around him, and Quentin didn’t even notice.

It was almost infuriating. It might’ve been, if it wasn’t also pure magic.

Eliot moved forward, unsteadily, and leaned down to kiss Quentin, his fingers tangling in Quentin’s hair. He pulled him close, not thinking about anything other than the ache deep in his chest at how much he loved this man, not thinking about yesterday or tomorrow or all of the insanity of their lives. There was only this; there was only Quentin.

Until Quentin pulled away suddenly, and took Eliot’s breath with him.

“I’m sorry. Um. I’m just… I’m sorry.” Quentin took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest and curling in on himself. He was shivering a little, like he was cold. “I’m sorry.”

Eliot cleared his throat, pulling himself back together. “What are you sorry for?” he said gently.

Quentin dragged a hand down his face, groaning, and he sat down heavily on the bed, hanging his head.

Eliot walked over slowly and sat down next to him.

“I want to—” Quentin cut off, sighing. “It’s not that I don’t want you.”

“It’s okay,” Eliot said, taking Quentin’s hand. “I understand.”

Quentin squeezed Eliot’s hand tightly. “You don’t, though,” he said, not unkindly. “You weren’t there.”

Eliot shifted a little to angle himself towards Quentin. He brought his free hand up and brushed a knuckle down Quentin’s jawline. “So tell me.”

Quentin almost seemed to relax at the words. The angles of his shoulders softened and his grip on Eliot’s hand loosened as he rubbed a thumb against Eliot’s wrist. He looked down, his eyelashes heavy over his eyes.

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Quentin replied. “I’m just… God, El, I’m so fucking tired.”

Eliot heard an amount of what happened while he was gone. Bits and pieces, whatever he could catch. He knew that Quentin had been…

Well. Less than ideal.

“Honestly?” Quentin looked up at the ceiling. “I thought I’d be happier to be back.”

Eliot stroked Quentin’s hair back and put his arm over his shoulders, pulling him in. He kissed Quentin’s forehead gently.

“I’m going to tell you something I didn’t even tell Margo when I got back,” Eliot said, keeping his voice as even as he could. “I thought I’d be happier, too. Getting back here… It wasn’t the relief I hoped it would be. It wasn’t real, that place I was trapped in my mind, but it was safe. It almost felt like home.”

Quentin shifted, leaning into Eliot’s side more. “I could’ve hidden there forever. That blank void,” he said softly. “I might’ve. If I hadn’t found the mirror, I really might’ve just let myself hide forever.”

Eliot tightened his arm around Quentin.

“How are we supposed to do this now?” Quentin went on. “I mean. After fucking everything. After all that… How are we supposed to just… I mean. What am I supposed to do here? How am I supposed to live with it?”

“I suppose we just have to take it one day at a time.”

“That’s such a cliché, El.”

“Mm. But it isn’t wrong.” Eliot leaned away a little so he could look into Quentin’s eyes, his heart heavy with relief, and he offered a soft smile. “And you’re not alone here.”

Quentin stared at him for a few slow moments.

“I love you,” he said. A simplicity in the words. “You know that, right?”

“Sometimes,” Eliot replied honestly. He cupped the side of Quentin’s face.

Quentin’s eyes fluttered closed. “Can we… Can we just try to sleep?”

Eliot kissed his forehead. “Of course. Things will be better in the morning.”

It was, Eliot understood, a somewhat empty sentiment. The promise that everything would be better in the morning. It was something his mother had told him, in the few moments of his childhood where it felt like she loved him. When he’d have a bad day, or a bad night, and she’d make him tea and tell him that if he just slept, the world would be brighter the next day.

_Things will be better in the morning._

_Everything will be better in the morning, you’ll see._

Quentin curled up on his side, letting out a shaky breath. Eliot saw a tear clinging to the corner of his eye.

He settled in beside Quentin, tucking Q’s back against his chest, kissing his cheek and the side of his neck. Quentin melted into him. Eliot closed his eyes tightly, thinking about where he’d started this morning. Desperate and reckless and alone.

It wasn’t perfect. Nothing ever was. But here they were, together and alive, with the promise of tomorrow. Eliot let himself believe it was real. He let himself believe they were okay.

“Um. I don’t think I, um… Thanks,” Quentin said.

“What for?”

“For saving me. For… For not giving up on me.”

Eliot tightened his arms around Quentin.

“Of course.”

He didn’t say, _I’d never give up on you._ He didn’t say, _you’re the love of my life._ He didn’t say, _you’d do the same for me._ He didn’t say, _I don’t know what I would’ve done without you._ He didn’t say, _thanks for following me home._

He hoped Quentin could hear it anyway.

They fell asleep like that, pressed against each other, the hope that things would be better in the morning drifting through their minds. 

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr at official-mermaid, if you like


End file.
